Ashes to Ashes
by InkStainedEyes
Summary: Saige is 18, Kirsty is 38, pain is ageless. The Lament Configuration has fixated itself on a new soul, spirited and curious as Kirsty was before her. Can Kirsty save this young woman from falling into the same spiral that the Lead Cenobite has led her down, or will the being Saige knows as Ashmouth convince her to make the frightening dreams of the Lament Configuration her reality?
1. Chapter 1

_I... have some explaining to do, don't I? Sorry for my dropping off the face of the Earth - I lost inspiration for the story until just recently, but going back and rereading it, I realized a LOT of it felt forced. To be fair, I've been at a writing college for a couple years since I started the fic, so my writing has (hopefully) improved since then. So, I'm going to be rehashing this entire piece, so it flows better and doesn't feel as awkward as it did._

_I really hope you enjoy the updated first chapter, I'll try to have the second one up soon! This will remain Pinsty and OC/OC, although I may write a Pinhead/OC story/series of drabbles as I work on this. I have such a weakness for ships, I can't even explain it._

* * *

Chapter 1

"What do you mean, it isn't here?!"

"Somebody bought it, missy. I'm sorry." She rubbed her forehead and groaned. "Sweet young lady, had curly hair like yours. Bit darker-skinned, though."

She ran a hand through her hair, not focusing on the antique salesman's ramblings. This was worse than bad. Somebody had bought the Lament Configuration from this store – this store, in here hometown! Some girl had been drawn in, like she had once, and paid for her own demise.

She could only pray the girl didn't open it – if she lived close, they'd find _her, _and if they weren't neighbors, a girl still got dragged into Hell. This was a bad situation no matter how she sliced it – her only choice was to start looking, and pray she found the girl before _they _did.

"You seem upset, ma'am," the shopkeeper said, "If it helps, I can give her your number if she comes back in, tell her you were looking for her."

"Yes, that's fine," she said absently, scribbling her number down on a business card and handing it to the old man.

"Now who am I telling her to call, again?" He adjusted his glasses as he looked up at the woman again.

"Cotton. My name is Kirsty Cotton."

* * *

"What a cool puzzle box, I said." Rubber soles pounded stone tile. "A pretty trinket, I said." Sweat clung to her neck and forehead. Her lungs were burning. "Perfectly harmless, I said. Thanks a lot, me!"

She spun at the corner. Barbed wire scraped her arm. Everything was cold and gray and black. She'd been running for what could have been hours, too panicked to cry or scream. Where was she? All she knew was that as soon as they stopped, they'd be behind her.

They never _weren't _behind her.

The ground dropped off, and she slid to a stop right before it did. She could see a swirling chasm below, red and black and something darker. Around her the souls of the damned wailed, a chorus of agony provided percussion by her own pounding heart.

A cold hand on her shoulder pulled her back. The touch was firm but gentle.

Gentle – a wordless lie.

She turned, a gored face looking into hers. Teeth clacking, face skinless, metal and leather wrapping what should have been soft human flesh. The hand on her shoulder was at her throat. She could breathe, but just barely, strangled gasps passing her lips as clanking metal signaled the approach of the others. All of them were bloodied and mangled, metal jutting out of them like a sadist's sculptural piece. A black gaze fell on hers, and pale, gridded lips framed by rusted needles smirked.

"I recognize that spirit," he said softly voice reverberating through her bones, "that will to fight on principle… you even look like her. Why don't you cry, child? You're free to scream."

_No, I'm not, _she managed to focus on the thought as she gulped for breath, and the chattering _thing _released her neck. She coughed and sputtered, stumbling back. Rock fell behind her.

"Perhaps she will draw her in," a different voice spoke, and she looked up at the leather-clad being she'd mentally dubbed Ashmouth. His hands clasped beneath his chin like a pose of prayer, and then the second pair of arms nested beneath folded behind him. "Birds of a feather, kindred beings in curiosity…"

"Do you have your eye on this one, then?" The pinned one spoke again. She would have snorted if she wasn't busy trying not to cry – Ashmouth didn't _have _visible eyes, the entire top half of his head apart from his nose and ears encased in a rusted steel shell caked with dried blood. Like the rest, he was clad in leather robes, iron rings piercing the flesh between his ribs. She couldn't see bone, but she could see skin peeled back between the rungs, two columns of fleshy red stripes contouring his chest.

"Like you said, she has spirit. But if she'll let it bend to us is another question altogether." He stepped closer, holding his upper left hand out. "We have such sights to show you."

She looked at his hand. How far would she fall if she jumped?

"The way is yours, Saige Simmons." His ash-covered lips pulled into a wry smile. "But before you take the first step, I suggest you wake up."

* * *

Saige's eyes snapped open. She could feel the scratches and bruises on her skin, and sweat clinging to her as she tried to catch her breath. But she didn't see an ominous sky as she looked up, only her ceiling fan. The clothes clinging to her were her pajamas, the weight on her body was a blanket. They weren't here.

She was safe.

She hesitated in sitting up, afraid her room might melt away into that world of gray and red if she moved. Eventually she pulled herself up and turned to face her pillow, reaching underneath and pulling out something cold.

It was such a pretty box, that was part of why she was frustrated. It had _begged _her to bring it home from the antique shop, the way it sparkled under the dull lamp light on the shelf, and for twelve dollars, she hadn't even considered not buying it. But now, Her mind replaying the possibly hours-long pursuit in her head, she wanted to throw it away.

But she couldn't. The thought was ridiculous – she could get up and throw it out of her bedroom window right now if she liked – but something was stopping her, the same something that had driven her to buy it in the first place.

Had that just been a dream? Was it a vision? How was she all scratched up just from being asleep? Had the box conjured that up, or was there something inside it, projecting outwards?

Saige got out of bed, placed the box on a closet shelf, and closed the doors. She moved to the bathroom, and looked up at the clock as she ran the bath water. 2:23 AM. She'd worry about the box tomorrow – right now, Saige just wanted to make sure none of these cuts were infected. Dream wounds were hardly a good excuse for missing violin practice.

Within the closet, the Lament Configuration sat on a pile of old blankets, patiently waiting for her hands.


	2. Chapter 2

_Revised chapter 2! Please let me know what you guys think of the revisions so far, I'm really hoping this one feels a bit less stifled. Any feedback helps!_

* * *

Chapter 2

"Welcome back," the shopkeeper said with a smile. "Looking for more souvenirs?"

"Yeah," Saige said. "This is a cool place, you got all kinds of stuff." She should have bought one of the antique music boxes, really. The puzzle box hadn't left the closet until this morning, two days later, but she was still having trouble sleeping. It showed, too – faint circles hung beneath her eyes.

"This is the place?" Saige looked at her aunt Cassidy as she walked in. "What a charming shop, I didn't even know this was here."

"Just reopened," the shopkeeper answered, offering Cassidy a smile as well. "We have furniture, décor, old books, you name it."

"How nice," Cassidy smiled, and looked down at Saige. "I think I'm going to look a bit further in, is that alright?"

"I'm 18, Aunt Cassie, I'll be alright." Cassidy smiled and walked further into the store, among the nooks and crannies. Saige shoved her hands in her pockets, vaguely aware of the box prodding her leg from inside her purse.

"Hey, sir? Can I ask you something about the box?" She'd rehearsed a few different questions, trying to whittle the one she'd ask to something innocuous and casual; asking why his stock had shown her visions of demons seemed a big accusatory.

"Certainly," he leaned over the counter, "actually, a woman came in here the other day looking for it. Quite the curious little trinket – I had three different people telling me not to sell it before I could even put it on the shelves. Lot of fuss for some old toy, don't you think?"

"So… you don't know where it came from?" Well, that was disheartening. He shook his head.

"Not a clue. An antiques distributor in London offered it to me almost for free when I mentioned I was reopening a store. He seemed a bit scared of it, just wanted to be rid of the thing. I didn't think anything of it at the time – superstition and whatnot." He frowned, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Actually… the woman who was asking about it seemed concerned, too. I think she gave me…" He disappeared under the counter, and a moment later emerged with a piece of paper. "Here, she gave me a phone number. I think she'd know more than I do."

Saige took the number and looked at it – Kirsty Cotton, written in pretty, if rushed, lettering. She put it in her pocket before reaching into her purse.

"It sounds like there's a lot going on with this box…" She pulled it out and put it on the counter. "It's kind of weirding me out. I don't want to be any trouble, but do you think you could keep an eye on it for me? At least, until I know what's going on?"

"Certainly," he put the box behind the counter with an amiable smile, "Maybe you can fill me in, too."

"Will do." She glanced into the back of the store, where she could see her aunt admiring chairs. "Aunt Cassie, I'm gonna go get some coffee, okay?"

"Go ahead!" Cassidy called, and Saige stepped out of the store with one more nod to the shopkeeper. She pulled out the number and her phone, and started dialing as she walked to the coffee shop.

* * *

Kirsty didn't like Caller ID. That wasn't true, actually; She loved the _idea _of it, and it was helpful more times than not, but the number of Unknown Callers she got left her uneasy.

Part of her regretted giving her number to that old man – what if he was one of them? – but when the phone buzzed in her pocket, UNKNOWN CALLER over a number that wasn't local, she answered.

"Is this Ms. Cotton?"

"I'm not interested," Kirsty stared, "please don't call this number again."

"No, I'm not selling anything," the voice was young, younger than a telemarketer, and Kirsty refrained from hanging up only so she could ask who this girl was. "Listen, Ms. Cotton-"

"Kirsty," she answered.

"Kirsty," the voice repeated, "My name is Saige Simmons. I'm really sorry to bother you, but I was supposed to call you about…"

Suspicion of a different kind started rising in Kirsty's chest. "About what?"

Silence, before the girl named Saige spoke in a quieter voice. "I'm really sorry to bother you, Kirsty, but that box has been giving me really weird dreams and the shopkeeper doesn't know what it is, and I'm really freaking out a bit."

"Where are you? Where's the box?"

"I gave it back to the store guy to hold onto. I'm at the coffee shop on the next street, the one with the owl on the sign. What do I do?"

"Wait there. I'll meet you in a minute. Whatever you do, don't take the box back." She started walking. "You are in danger, Saige."

"I kinda guessed that," Saige answered.

"I'll be there in a minute." She hung up, and picked up her pace.

She'd given the box back. She'd done the smart thing and put distance between herself and the Cenobites. They couldn't touch her if she hadn't opened the box.

There was a chance, however small, that she could save this girl.


End file.
